Daughters Of The Storm

by Kim Wilkins

  The boy’s shoulder turned slightly towards him. ‘Papa?’ he said again.

  ‘Papa’s not here,’ Wylm replied.

  The boy fell silent. Wylm kept his senses alert for the return of the farmer. Minutes crept past. The boy grew agitated, whimpering a little. He tried to stand, but Wylm grasped his wrist firmly and sat him back down. ‘Stay here,’ he said.

  The boy did as he was told, but his skinny shoulders were pulled tight and he began to shake. His tension was contagious: Wylm’s stomach twitched. A cloud moved over the sun.

  Minutes dragged by. The boy fiddled with a ring on his left hand. Wylm glanced at it, saw the royal insignia of Ælmesse. He smiled to himself.

  Then he was there: the farmer. Wylm saw him, he saw Wylm.

  The farmer shouted something: not a word, an exclamation. He began to run towards them.

  Wylm stood behind the boy, gently pushed his head forwards, and pressed the knife against the side of his throat.

  The farmer stopped. ‘Eni!’ he cried.

  ‘Come a little closer,’ Wylm called. ‘I’ll need to talk to you.’

  The farmer approached, his hands spread in a gesture of peace. ‘Please don’t hurt my boy.’

  ‘Where is Bluebell?’

  Wylm watched the farmer’s face closely. A barely perceptible tightening of his jaw told Wylm he did indeed know where Bluebell was. But now he would deny it.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Bluebell. Your lover.’

  Eni trembled. ‘Bluebell?’

  ‘It’s all right, Eni,’ the farmer said in a soothing voice.

  Wylm’s heart was thundering. ‘I will not play games with you. Tell me where Bluebell is, or I will cut your son’s throat.’

  The farmer’s eyebrows squeezed together, an exquisite expression of emotional pain. Wylm could almost see him weighing up his options: Bluebell could protect herself, his son could not.

  ‘Two miles north of Stonemantel, take the first track after the road south-west to Lyteldyke. It’s a flower farm. There is a long stable at the front edge of the farm. You’ll know the farmhouse because it is large and the sills are carved with flowers.’

  ‘And what has she planned?’

  ‘To heal her father.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He shook his head, a tear squeezing out onto his cheek.

  Wylm hated him for crying. ‘You do know.’

  ‘I swear I do not. I did not ask. It is not my business.’

  ‘Is this child hers?’

  A look of brief incomprehension. ‘Is ...? Eni? No. He is not Bluebell’s child.’

  ‘But of course you’d say that.’ Wylm’s disappointment made him cruel. He yanked the boy’s hand into the air roughly. ‘What about this ring?’

  ‘It was a gift from Bluebell. A trinket that no longer fit her. Let him go.’

  Wylm dropped the child’s arm.

  ‘His mother’s name was Edie,’ the farmer said, and the sorrow, the love on his tongue convinced Wylm where no other evidence could. This child was not Bluebell’s. He nodded once, and stood back, releasing Eni. The farmer fell to his knees in front of the boy, the curve of his hard back exposed to Wylm.

  His vision tunnelled. He was Bluebell’s lover. Would he go ahead of Wylm to warn her? Surely not with his blind child to look after.

  More importantly, he mattered to Bluebell. She cared about him.

  He brought the knife up, then drove it hard into the famer’s upper back. He twitched, his hands flying upwards, knocking Eni off the stool and onto the ground.

  ‘Run, Eni!’ he grunted.

  The boy yelped, scrambled to his feet and ran off unevenly.

  Wylm removed the knife and brought it down again, this time into the back of the farmer’s neck. He fell still and silent on the ground.

  Wylm retrieved his knife, wiped the blood on the edge of the farmer’s tunic, then tucked it into his waistband. He looked around, but couldn’t see the boy. Should he give chase? The boy was neither a threat nor, sadly, a treasure. No, he was itching to get away from Ælmesse to pick up the next thread of his destiny. He quickly raided the house for food, stuffing it in his pack, then stalked off across the fields and headed north-west, towards the sea.

  The air smelled of damp earth, smoke and roasting meat. Bluebell paced near her father’s cart, Thrymm and Thræc soft at her heels hoping for food, as evening closed in. The rain had cleared and they would sleep under the stars tonight. Ash had scouted ahead and found this semi-sheltered place, against the wall of a rocky valley; they had wound down a muddy road to its floor and camped among the ancient roots of an ash tree. Moisture still clung to the grass, but had evaporated off the flat rocks and gravel. A fire burned at the centre of their camp, and over it Sighere held two wild rabbits on a spear. The firelight created sinister shadows among the mossy roots. Bluebell was hungry: travelling always made her hungry. But Æthlric hadn’t eaten today and it bothered her. His sleeps were becoming longer, impossible to rouse him from. And when he had been awake and Rose had tried to feed him, he’d thrown his arms about and knocked the bread into a muddy ditch shouting half-coherent accusations she was a poisoner. It was one thing to drip water from a cloth into his mouth, but she couldn’t force food into him.

  Willow approached tentatively with a handful of rabbit intestines. Thrymm whimpered.

  ‘Bluebell? For your dogs?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Willow knelt and the dogs sniffed the air warily.

  ‘It’s all right, girls, eat up.’

  The dogs fell on the food. Willow rinsed her hands in a puddle then wiped them on her skirts. She gave Bluebell a shy nod and returned to Ivy’s side. Bluebell watched her go. Willow had been surprisingly useful, willing to do the tasks the others shrank from, such as changing and cleaning Father and his bed. She had a simple manner and an artless compassion that impressed Bluebell.

  Bluebell sighed, stopped pacing. She climbed up on the cart and sat next to her father, pulled her long legs up and rested her cheek on her knees. When they’d left the previous morning, she had been full of hope. But now, hope dwindled. The long, deep sleeps were deathlike. She raised her head and glanced towards Ash, who was feeding the fire from a bundle of small logs held in her skirt. The firelight made her soft face seem almost childlike. Bluebell wondered if Ash would be able to divine, with her other sight, whether or not Father’s condition was worsening.

  As she had the thought, Ash slowly turned her head to look at Bluebell. Bluebell saw something flicker in her eyes, and Ash stood and dropped the bundle, then came towards her.

  ‘Did you know I wanted to ask you something?’ Bluebell said, a shiver of awe passing over her skin for her sister’s uncanny talent.

  Ash shrugged. ‘Nothing so clear as that. But I looked up and you were watching me.’

  ‘Come up here with me.’ She shifted over to make room in the cart for Ash, who climbed up and sat next to her. A stiff breeze shook the branches above them, showering them with the rain that had been held in their leaves.

  Bluebell wiped a drop of water from her nose. ‘What did you want to ask me?’

  ‘We’ve been away from Blicstowe for two days. Has he ... improved? It seems to me as though the opposite is happening. He’s barely awake any more.’

  Did Ash’s mouth tighten, or was that an evening shadow? ‘You want me to open up my mind to him again?’

  Bluebell nodded.

  Ash took a breath, then reached her hands out to Father’s sleeping form. She closed her eyes.

  Bluebell watched Ash, a tiny note of dismay thrumming along her nerves. Below the soft, young skin, Ash looked tired. Desperate. As though her bones were struggling to hold their shape. But then Bluebell shook herself. She too was tired and desperate. Their father was sick, possibly dying. These were difficult times.

  Ash sank back, lifted her hands away and opened her eyes. She offered Bluebell a littl
e smile. ‘He’s no better, but he’s no worse.’

  ‘The illness hasn’t progressed?’

  ‘No.’

  Bluebell’s heart felt warm. ‘That’s wonderful.’ And she knew she’d done the right thing, getting Æthlric away from Blicstowe, from the site of the bad magic.

  Ash rubbed Bluebell’s hand. ‘Don’t raise your hopes too high, sister.’

  ‘Too late.’ She glanced at Father’s sleeping face. ‘If he gets no worse, then I’m sure Yldra can fix him.’

  ‘If we can find her.’

  ‘We’ll find her.’

  Ash tilted her head to the side and her long plait fell over her shoulder. ‘Bluebell, have you not wondered why Father has never told us about Yldra?’

  Bluebell blinked. No, the thought hadn’t occurred to her. She had been too busy thinking of other things.

  ‘Perhaps she won’t help,’ Ash continued.

  ‘Why would she not help? She’s his sister.’ Whatever else Yldra was, she was family. She was made of some of the same stuff as Æthlric. To betray one’s own blood was to betray oneself. Nobody would willingly do it, surely. Even an undermagician.

  Ash smiled. ‘I hope you are right, Bluebell.’

  Rose lay with her eyes closed long after the rest of the camp became still and quiet, although she didn’t sleep: tired in her bones, but unable to drift off on that soft tide. She tried her left side, then her right. Sometimes sleep veered close, but then escaped before she could grasp it. She heard the owls in the distance; she heard the watch change over; she heard the late-night breeze pick up.

  Finally, she opened her eyes.

  Warm firelight reflected off the rocky walls and grey tree trunks. Around her, bodies were wrapped tight against the midnight chill. She couldn’t see Heath from here: he slept on the other side of the camp. Beside her lay Rowan, her little chest rising and falling rhythmically, her long dark hair falling over her face.

  Rose sat up and glanced over to the cart. Ivy was on watch, but she had nodded off into her chest and was slumped uncomfortably against the side of the cart. Rose pushed off her blanket — the air was cool and damp — and went to her.

  ‘Ivy,’ she whispered, shaking her softly.

  Ivy startled awake. ‘Oh! Oh, it’s you.’ Her gaze went to Bluebell’s sleeping form.

  ‘Do you want me to sit with you a while? Keep you awake? I can’t sleep anyway.’

  Ivy nodded and shifted over to make space, and Rose climbed up into the cart. Æthlric’s stillness was uncanny: a warm version of death. Still, it was better than his periodic fits, which terrified Rowan.

  Ivy palmed her eyes and yawned. ‘You won’t tell Bluebell I was asleep on the job, will you?’

  ‘As long as you try to stay awake next time.’

  ‘I will.’

  Silence a few moments. Rose realised she and Ivy had little to talk about.

  ‘Rose,’ Ivy ventured, ‘Heath is your nephew, is he not?’

  Rose bristled. ‘My husband’s nephew,’ she said quickly. Her gaze drifted to the outer edge of the camp, where Heath slept on his side, facing away from her. Firelight in his hair. She turned her eyes back to Ivy, and realised Ivy was staring at Heath with unabashed longing. ‘Why do you ask?’ she said, careful to keep the suspicion out of her voice.

  ‘I think he’s rather lovely,’ Ivy said.

  The hard fist of jealousy made her unable to speak for a few seconds. ‘I see,’ she managed.

  ‘Does he belong to anyone?’

  And what was she to say? Heath belonged to her, of course. The thought of his hands touching another woman’s body burned her to ashes. Those caresses, those kisses were hers. Nobody else’s. Certainly not Ivy’s. ‘He’s not married, no,’ Rose said gruffly, ‘but he’s a highborn thane in Wengest’s family: the son of the king’s sister. Wengest may very well have plans for him to marry someday. It would be foolish to develop any ideas about him.’

  ‘He’s a soldier?’

  ‘He was a farmer. He has twenty acres down by the river below Folcenham.’ A flush in her belly, remembering the smoky little farmhouse where they had made love. ‘Though I believe he hasn’t seen his home for a long time. Bluebell has had him garrisoned in the north for three years.’

  Ivy’s lip curled. ‘She is cruel.’

  ‘Wengest put him into the army in the first place.’ Rose watched Ivy. She had hardly taken her eyes off Heath. ‘Bluebell only does what she thinks is right for the safety of her family and kingdom.’

  Ivy was silent a few moments. Then she slowly turned her eyes to Rose. ‘What kind of woman might Wengest choose for him?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Her stomach twitched. The day would come, of course. And why shouldn’t Heath have a wife? Rose had a husband.

  ‘When you married Wengest, Ælmesse had peace with Netelchester at last,’ Ivy said. ‘Now Bluebell commands an army that is made half of Netelchester’s warriors. Perhaps Wengest would consider cementing this goodwill with another marriage.’ She beamed. ‘What do you think?’

  It took Rose two heartbeats to understand what she meant. ‘What? No. Ivy, you are barely out of childhood. Do not be in a hurry to marry. This is nonsense anyway. Don’t you dare to mention it to Bluebell.’ For fear Bluebell would think it a very good idea.

  ‘Well, I hadn’t thought to marry yet,’ Ivy said, tossing her blonde hair over her shoulders.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘But I should like to get to know him.’

  ‘He is a good man,’ Rose said softly. The best of men. She was foolish to think no other woman would notice.

  Willow woke to voices. Angel voices. Mad, spitting in her ear, poking her and prodding her in the soft places of her brain. ‘Get up get up get up get up.’ But as soon as she opened her eyes, the angel voices abruptly disappeared, sucked into a hushed midnight quiet. Instead, she heard the whispered voices of two of her sisters, Rose and Ivy, sitting in the cart. She couldn’t hear what they were saying.

  But she knew the angels had woken her for a reason. She screwed her eyes tight and prayed hard for a sign. What do you want from me, Maava?

  No answer. She listened into the dark for a little while. Ivy and Rose murmured softly to each other.

  She was being a fool. Maava only wanted one thing from her: to save her heathen father’s soul. And even though she was tired and wanted to drift back to sleep, she climbed to her feet, relishing the effort and ache it took as proof she was Maava’s good servant.

  ‘I will take your watch, sister,’ Willow said to Ivy.

  Rose shook her head. ‘You took a watch last night. You will be too tired to travel tomorrow.’

  ‘And that tiredness will prove my devotion to my father.’ A dozen echoing angel voices sighed in her head. Were they angry, or happy? She clenched her fists. ‘Please, let me.’

  Ivy shrugged. ‘I’m happy to go back to sleep. Do it if you like.’ She climbed down from the cart. ‘Go on.’

  Rose helped her up. ‘Do you want me to sit with you a while?’

  ‘I want to do this myself,’ Willow said, although she could hardly hear her voice over the angels. They were happy. Such relief! They were laughing along with her. How easy it had been. ‘Please, take your rest. I will do everything that is good for him.’

  Rose smiled and climbed down. ‘If you get tired, let me know.’

  Willow nodded. Her sisters departed. Minutes later, the camp was still and quiet.

  She turned and glanced over her shoulder at Æthlric. He was only her father in blood. She barely knew him. Uncle Robert — her mother’s brother with whom she had grown up — was not her father either. He was a shallow, impatient man who cared more about his horses than his family.

  But when she thought of Maava ... ah, he was the father she had longed for. Strong and good, infinite in wisdom and power. The voices in her head stilled as she fished her triangle out of her pocket and let its chain drape through her fingers. With her shoulder turned against curious eyes,
she began to pray.

  ‘Maava, deliver my father to the Sunlands. Forgive his heathen soul ...’ Over and over, surrendering her errant thoughts to the words, bending her mind to the single purpose. She let her lips move, let the words emerge as soft sounds on her breath. A wind stirred in the trees high above her, cool air rippled over her skin, she lost herself in the dark, sacred pool of prayer.

  An hour passed, and her mind began to wander. She took a deep breath and opened her eyes. Five minutes of rest, then she would go back to it. By firelight, she counted the sleeping bodies around her with her eyes. Long Bluebell on her side, the narrow hard line of her thigh visible through the blanket. Rose and Rowan, a tangle of dark hair and white limbs. A tuft of Ivy’s fair hair peeking above the blanket next to them. Ash, asleep very straight on her back, one hand clenched into a loose fist below her breasts. And Sighere and Heath. She couldn’t look at them. She closed her eyes. Men were strange to her. So big and hairy and smelling of sweat and leather. She hoped Bluebell would never ask her to marry. How she despaired at the idea. Some heathen ape who would crush her. Sometimes, she let herself daydream about the kind of man she could love: someone smaller and softer of skin, someone who loved Maava as much as she did. But finding such a man in her father’s kingdom, or under her family’s protection, was impossible.

  The thought made her lonely, but just for a moment. Then the angels spat to life in her head and she remembered her purpose. It wasn’t to sit here, pitying herself. Once again, she prayed. This time, harder than before. Prayed until her ribs ached and her fingers were raw around the silver chain. Dimly, she became aware she was drifting away from the camp, from the popping fire and the spring breeze. The words were leading her into a different place, a soft place where she could lay down her burden ...

  Then she snapped awake. Birdsong, pale light. It was dawn. She had fallen asleep.

  Quickly, she picked up the chain and began to pray again, in time to hear Bluebell’s voice strong behind her.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  Willow plunged the chain and triangle between her knees, folding it between layers of her skirt. She turned to Bluebell, heart thundering. ‘I’m ...’